“Pray the Gay Away” (and Other Bullsh*t That Gave You Anxiety and Depression)

It doesn’t take a theology degree or a psych textbook to understand that growing up queer in conservative religious spaces causes harm. If you had to hide who you were—or who you loved—in order to belong, protect yourself, or avoid being shamed in your faith community, it is likely you felt pain, confusion, and isolation. Given that these experiences were ongoing (i.e. chronic) and not one-time events, it is also likely that symptoms of anxiety and depression began to show up. That’s not a personal failure. That’s your body and mind responding exactly as they should in a painful and impossible situations where you did not have adequate support.

It’s easy to forget this when you feel overwhelmed. Afraid. Ashamed. Numb. Or get stuck in the spiral of overthinking. The constant questions echoing in your head of “What’s wrong with me?” are exhausting—and make healing feel out of reach.

So let’s name it clearly: there is nothing wrong with you.

There’s something very wrong with the system that taught you to feel unsafe in your own skin.

When Hiding Becomes a Way of Life

Many years ago, when I was still immersed in high-control religion, I decided to become a member of the church I was attending. To do that, you had to complete a series of requirements—one of which was an eight-week membership class.

Looking back, I don’t remember exactly why I wanted to become a member. It just felt like the natural next step. When you attended regularly, served in ministry, and were invested in the community, joining officially was what you were supposed to do.

The class itself covered all the basics: church history, doctrine, mission, core values, and expectations for members. And while I was still closeted at the time, I was slowly waking up to the truth about myself—I was gay. I hadn’t yet figured out what to do with that truth, especially in a faith community that taught acting on “same-sex attraction” was sinful.

Whenever I tried to think too deeply about it—about who I could talk to, what I believed, what it might mean for my future—I would panic. My brain would short-circuit, and I’d distract myself with anything else: the weather, my to-do list, the flowers blooming outside.

Then came the week in class when the pastor started discussing church doctrine and “controversial issues in our culture.” My stomach dropped. I knew exactly where this was headed.

Sure enough, he brought up homosexuality, explaining how the church’s beliefs were based on the Bible’s “clear” teachings about sex and marriage. And then, in a calm, polished tone, he said the line I’d heard some version of in so many religious spaces before:

“Homosexuality is incompatible with Christian teaching.”

It was a kinder-sounding, theologically respectable way of saying: “If you’re gay, you can’t and don’t belong here.”

I tried, once again, to tune it out. I tried to think about anything else. But the discomfort was too loud to ignore.

I realized I had a choice. I could be honest about who I was—and risk losing the community I had—or I could keep hiding and stay safe.

At the time, safety won.

I stayed silent. I kept showing up. I kept serving, smiling, nodding along. I told myself that maybe someday I’d figure it out, that maybe the dissonance would ease. But deep down, I knew I was fragmenting. I was learning to split off entire parts of myself just to survive in a space that only loved me conditionally.

Because when your community only offers love or belonging if you meet certain criteria—if you believe the right things, act the right way, and certainly aren’t gay—then hiding stops being a temporary strategy. It becomes a way of life.

It trains you to become your own monitor, constantly scanning for any sign that you might be “too much,” “too queer,” or “too real” for people to accept.

Imagine putting your thoughts and feelings under a microscope before you even let yourself feel them:

• Is this thought okay?

• Is this emotion sinful?

• Will I be judged if I share this?

• Will I be rejected? Will I be found out?

That’s not just exhausting—it’s dehumanizing.

And over time, it creates a perfect environment for depression (feeling low, worthless, disconnected, hopeless) and anxiety (overthinking, dread, physical tension, difficulty sleeping, fear of being "found out”) to grow.

The Either/Or Trap

One of the toxic byproducts of high-control religion is black-and-white thinking. You’re taught there are only two boxes to choose from: good or bad, clean or dirty, saved or lost, pure or impure, holy or unholy, accepted or rejected.

And when you don’t fully fit into the “good” box—because of your gender identity, your sexuality, your doubts, your questions—there’s only one place left to go.

There’s no room for complexity. No space for paradox. No permission to be fully human.

This binary lens doesn’t just harm how you see yourself—it impacts how you show up in relationships too. You might catch yourself thinking:

• “If I annoy them, they’ll leave.”

• “If we disagree, it means we’re not okay.”

• “If I let them see this part of me, they’ll stop loving me.”

This isn’t you being “too sensitive.”

This is the result of being shaped by a system that told you love is conditional.

And those messages? They don’t just disappear when you leave that system behind.

Internalized Shame Doesn’t Expire on Its Own

Even after you’ve left an unaffirming faith community—or even the entire concept of religion—it’s common for those old messages to stick around.

Things like:

• “The unedited version of me isn’t acceptable.”

• “If I let people see the real me, they’ll reject me.”

• “Maybe I really am broken.”

That’s internalized shame.
It’s sneaky. It’s persistent. And it feeds depression and anxiety like fuel feeds fire.

You might find yourself constantly questioning your worth or assuming rejection before it happens. You might feel like peace or joy are suspicious—as if you don’t deserve them or they’ll be taken away.

If this is sounding familiar, change and growth are possible.

So, How Do We Start Healing?

There’s no one-size-fits-all answer, and I won’t default to the generic “just go for a walk” advice (though movement can help!). But here are a few deeper, more targeted places to begin:

1. Notice When You're “Monitoring” Yourself

So many queer survivors of high-control religion live with an internal monitor—a part of you that’s constantly evaluating whether what you’re feeling or expressing is “acceptable.” That monitor used to keep you safe. But now? It might be keeping you small.

Start noticing when that monitor shows up.

• Are you editing your personality in certain spaces?

• Are you downplaying your joy, anger, or queerness?

• Are you second-guessing your emotions?

Getting rid of this monitor overnight is unrealistic. But naming it for what it is—an old survival strategy—can help you build some distance from it. And from that distance, you can begin to choose: What would I say or feel right now if I weren’t policing myself?

2. Reclaim Pleasure, Joy, and Curiosity

High-control religion often teaches that if something feels good, it’s probably bad. So many queer folks come to believe that joy, rest, or exploration are dangerous—or that they have to be earned.

What’s something small that brings you pleasure or sparks your curiosity—and doesn’t require you to “perform” or be productive? It might be dancing alone to music you love, laughing with queer friends, experimenting with your style, or journaling questions without rushing to find answers.

These aren’t “luxuries.” They’re medicine. And they’re part of reclaiming your right to be fully human.

3. Stop Waiting to “Deserve” Peace

If you were raised in a religious system where everything had to be earned—love, safety, forgiveness—it can be hard to believe that you’re allowed to feel peace now, in your current state, exactly as you are.

Let’s be clear: you don’t have to deconstruct perfectly before you get to exhale. You don’t have to have all the answers. You don’t have to fix all the damage before you feel worthy of being okay.

• You are already worthy of healing.

• You don’t have to earn it through anxiety.

• You don’t have to prove your pain to deserve support.

• You’re allowed to soften—even while you're still sorting things out.

You’re Not Broken—You’re Grieving, Rebuilding, and Becoming

If you’re a queer person navigating the aftermath of religious trauma, please hear this:

There is nothing wrong with you.
Your depression and anxiety are not signs of spiritual or psychological failure.
They are signs that you’ve been forced to carry too much for too long.

And that means you’re allowed to let some of it go.

You’re allowed to grieve the acceptance you didn’t receive.
You’re allowed to get angry about what happened.
You’re allowed to rewrite the story of who you are—with gentleness, power, and pride.

Looking for Support? You Don’t Have to Do This Alone.

I work with LGBTQ+ survivors of religious trauma and spiritual abuse in California, Florida, and Missouri. Whether you're in the thick of faith deconstruction or trying to heal from years of spiritual shame, I’d be honored to support you.

Click below to request a free consultation to learn more about working together.